


in wolf's clothing

by Mononoke



Category: The Order: 1886
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Porn, Imprisonment, M/M, Minor Character Death, One Shot, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Torture, Touch-Starved, Werewolves, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26473594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mononoke/pseuds/Mononoke
Summary: In the dark, dismal catacombs of Westminster Palace, Grayson finds a friend.That the man calls himself Lucan is only a minor detail.
Relationships: Alastair D'Argyll/Grayson, Past/Implied Isabeau D'Argyll/Grayson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 26





	in wolf's clothing

**Author's Note:**

> Back when I first decided I'd commit to writing [the monster fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13746192?view_full_work=true) (back in 2016 lmao) I replayed the game to get a feel for everything again. I didn't even make it out of the prologue before I had the idea for this fic. I sat on it at the time because I wanted to focus on _of blood, of water_ instead, but just like that fic, the idea wouldn't go away. So here we are!
> 
> I borrowed a decent chunk of dialogue, formatting and all, from the game for a couple sections of this. You should know them when you read it.

They haul him from the council chamber with every charge laid against him still ringing in his ears. Half the Knights refuse to even glance his way; those that do have nothing but contempt for him. Lafayette falls into the former category, Isabeau the latter, and Grayson fights to catch a look at them even knowing how much the sight will hurt. Their faces are the last thing he takes with him as the room disappears from view.

Grayson doesn’t struggle as they force him along. It feels in some way like he isn’t present in his own body, like he’s caught in some terrible dream; his mind is stuck back there in the council chamber, living the moment of his judgment over and over. The Lord Chancellor’s words echo loudest.

_The sentence is death._

It was the only outcome that ever awaited him. This he understood, even as his farce of a trial played out. But as they march him through the halls towards the elevator he knows where it is that he’s heading. There’ll be no blade across the throat for a traitor like him, neither noose nor firing squad. No, his will be a drawn-out ordeal, the most fitting punishment for a crime such as his.

He understands this. Yet it’s not until he’s standing there, in one of the entrances to the catacombs, that he truly realises the fate that has been chosen for him.

There’s something cruel in the eyes of the redcoats guarding him. Something hungry, like vultures circling a wounded animal. They strip him of his weapon’s harness, the final piece of his uniform that had remained. Grayson waits for them to take his suspenders, too, but the order never comes. Instead one of the guards looks him over, a smirk curling his lips.

“Boots off. Now.”

Grayson stares at him. Then he slowly leans down to remove them.

The path they lead him down twists and turns. He loses track of the number of cells they pass. Most of them are closed off, steel doors hiding all manner of things within, but some are simply bars blocking off an otherwise open space. He doesn’t glance into these ones, no matter how curious he might be.

The passageway they finally turn down is considerably darker than the others they’ve passed, as though time itself has forgotten its existence. There are two cells to either side; they bring him to the one closest on the right. One of the guards makes himself busy unlocking the door, the other keeping a tight hold on Grayson’s arm.

“Your suite, milord,” the redcoat says, opening the cell with a flourish.

He’s shoved inside with such force he nearly trips. Grayson hears a laugh, and he turns with a withering glare.

The door’s already shut behind him.

He listens to the sound of their retreat until there’s nothing but silence. The breath he lets out then leaves him shaking, a sudden, impotent fury boiling under his skin. His hands are still shackled and he can do nothing, just grit his teeth and bury all that anger deep inside, ignore the urge to shout and bash his fists against the stone, against the door. He wants to fight. He _should be_ fighting. What kind of man would allow himself to be taken so easily? But following on the heels of that fury is a despondence so deep it threatens to swallow him, so wholly he might never find a way to climb out from it.

His allies – his _friends_ – think him a traitor. Not a single one among them stood in his defence. He is to become a cautionary tale, a name that’s whispered scornfully amongst their ranks – if they remember him at all.

… God, the way Isabeau had looked at him. The way she’d _sounded_ …

When he no longer feels like he might just shake apart Grayson looks around the cell.

There isn’t much to see. The space is divided nearly in two, bars sectioning off a smaller area; a cell within the cell, for observation or some other, more nefarious purpose. A lantern hangs above this section, though for the moment it remains unlit. Manacles are attached to the walls in two separate places, behind him and the wall opposite the entrance. Beyond that, the cell is empty, not even a bundle of rags to put between himself and the cold, hard floor.

Grayson paces slowly around the edges of the cell, arm brushing against the stone in lieu of fingers. They’ve left the slot in his door open, but the stone of the hall outside is about as interesting as the stone of his prison, so he doesn’t linger.

He doesn’t want to think, about Isabeau or Lafayette or the Lord Chancellor, or any of it. He doesn’t want to think about the life he’s thrown away. But his thoughts are all he has in this silence. Thoughts, and time.

Grayson thumps his back against the wall, allows another sigh to escape him. He stares at the bars across from him as he lowers himself to the floor. It’s fitting, how they seem to loom over him, filling his vision almost entirely.

He stares up at them, and tries not to wonder how many days he’ll last.

“You must have truly wronged them to end up here.”

Grayson goes still immediately.

He feels ridiculous, sitting there, eyes tracing over every inch of the cell as though he might have somehow missed a figure standing within. It’s empty, because of course it is. There’s not a shadow looming at the door, or any hint that the words came from outside. But he knows he heard them, tells himself so even as his ears strain for the slightest sound, from anywhere.

He’s holding his breath, he realises distantly, as though his silence might encourage the voice to speak again. Every sound is amplified, his heartbeat and the dripping of water from somewhere nearby, the skitter of stone on stone. But no voices.

“… losing my mind,” Grayson says to himself, shaking his head.

He pulls his legs up and hugs them to his chest. Without the added layers of his uniform – without the basic dignity of _shoes_ – it’s so much colder down here than he realised. He can already feel his skin turning to gooseflesh, shivers threatening to overwhelm.

He can do nothing but sit and bear it. This is where his actions have led him; this is the result of a corruption he unknowingly allowed to breed and thrive, that he was unable to properly expose. Perhaps if he’d been stronger, or smarter; perhaps if he hadn’t been so blinded by his anger and determination, and had sought out Isabeau or Lafayette’s help.

Or perhaps their attempt had been doomed from the start, playing against a man with a deck stacked in his own favour.

He hopes Lakshmi escaped safely. The fight was hers long before he even knew of it; she’s more than capable of carrying it onward.

And then:

“You haven’t lost your mind. Not yet. You’ll wish you had before the end, I assure you.”

* * *

He finds the hole the following morning.

At least, he assumes it’s morning. Without a window or any natural light to tell time by he really has no way of knowing. He trusts the natural rhythms of his body, to an extent, though he expects he’ll lose those too before the end.

He’d fallen asleep eventually, inevitably, his body only able to stave off exhaustion for so long. It had been a shallow thing, brief descents into unconsciousness broken up by intense shivering and the unsettling certainty of being watched. His cell had been empty every time he’d opened his eyes, no presence lurking at the door, but such a feeling was unmistakeable. He’d finally awoken fully, as exhausted as he’d been before he slept, and with little else to occupy his time he’d begun to search.

There, on the side where the bars block off part of the space, near to the darkest corner of the cell, he finds a break in the stone. It’s barely wider than his wrist; he certainly couldn’t reach his hand through comfortably. Whoever’s responsible for it has chipped away from the neighbouring cell, as there’s no evidence of the work it would take on Grayson’s side. It’s a ragged thing, like one would expect. The places his fingers can touch are made entirely of sharp edges, the stone permitting this but no more.

It’s a wonder it hasn’t been noticed before now. Grayson pulls back, looks towards the door and back again. The bars draw the eye the most on this side of the room; the shadows would hide the rest. Perhaps this particular cell doesn’t see much use. Or perhaps the redcoats are only ever focused on their prisoners that such a breach in their security could go overlooked.

Frowning, he leans down to peer through to the other side. It’s too dark to see anything beyond where the stone breaks, and while that’s not a surprise, he _is_ disappointed. He doesn’t move away, though, strains his eyes and tries to catch sight of something, anything.

Likely it would just be his mind _telling_ him he’s seen something, not that he actually _has_. But then, he doubted his ears before, didn’t he?

“Who are you?” he asks.

Silence. Even trying to keep his voice low, his words seem impossibly loud in the quiet of the cell. It’s enough to make him pause, glancing back towards the door as though three words alone will bring the redcoats down upon him. He waits, but nothing happens, just as he gets no response.

Grayson frowns, peering further into the dark.

“I know you can hear me.”

Something shoots out from the gap, striking him just below the eye.

“Wha – ow.”

He pulls back, cheek stinging. His own cell is dim enough that he can just barely make out something there on the ground. He grasps for it and finds a pebble, no larger than his thumbnail.

“Save your breath.”

Grayson’s heart leaps in his chest, adrenaline surging as his pulse thumps away in his neck. He very nearly knocks his head against the stone in his urgency to hunker down again, staring into the other cell with renewed vigour.

He knew it, knew he wasn’t imagining things –

“Who are you?” he asks again.

He gets no answer, but if this stranger believes that _ignoring_ him is going to make Grayson give up, he’s in for a rude surprise. He thinks he sees something move in the shadows, some indistinct shape, but he blinks and it’s gone again.

Grayson clenches his fist around the pebble, feels it bite into his palm.

“Please, just tell me something, anything –”

“There is no point in us speaking.”

“Why?”

“Do you not see where you are? You’ll be dead before too long.”

“And you won’t?”

Whoever this stranger is, they’re male. Anything more than that is impossible to know with any certainty. There’s a raggedness to the man’s voice, as though he hasn’t used it for some time, and it makes discerning even something as simple as age a challenge. He doesn’t sound far, wherever he is in that cell. Grayson feels a distinct temptation to flick the pebble back through the hole, see if he manages to hit anything; he just barely resists.

It’s a good thing, too, as a moment later the man responds:

“They bring people in; they take bodies out. You weren’t the first, and you won’t be the last.”

Grayson frowns at that. Then he hears a shifting sound, bare feet against stone. It’s deliberate enough that he understands the message, quickly and with great ease – this unexpected conversation of theirs is over. He lingers there a while longer, sitting beside the hole, listening for some hint that the stranger is willing to indulge him again. He knows that won’t be the case, even before the silence persists. Eventually he gives up, moves back across to the other side of the room.

They introduce him to the cistern only a little while later. It’s easy to forget about the stranger and the sound of his voice when he’s struggling not to drown.

* * *

He remembers things in flashes, the briefest moments of sense and awareness as he dips in and out of consciousness. His lungs seizing, burning in agony as his breath runs out; the strength of the hand holding him below the surface; his arms thrashing as he fights desperately to free himself, find some leverage, push himself away from the stone, _breathe_ –

He can barely get his feet under him, when it’s done. The guards haul him from the cistern, the path back to his cell eaten up with every blink of his eyes. They’re talking to each other, little barbed comments at his expense; their words lose all meaning seconds after he’s heard them. He comes back to himself just enough to recognise his cell, and then they’re dumping him to the floor, chuckling to themselves as the door slams shut.

And Grayson doesn’t fight it, slips willingly into the darkness pulling him down.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there before he can finally open his eyes and _keep_ them open. There isn’t a single part of him that doesn’t hurt. The shivers only make it worse, and he’s so cold. The top of his shirt still sticks to him from where the water has splashed over the edge, or where he’s hacked it up over himself. His wrists ache fiercely; he rolls onto his side, and it’s only then that he realises they’ve left him unshackled. He’s bruising there already, raw red skin that promises to turn a deeper shade with time.

Biting back a pained groan, Grayson pushes himself to his knees. He isn’t thinking as he crawls his way forward – all he knows is that he needs to put distance between himself and the door. When he slumps to the ground again it’s at the edge of the bars, what would be only a couple of paces away from where he started. It feels much farther than it really is.

He lies there, hole in the wall in sight, breathing hard and grateful for every second that he does.

“You’re there, aren’t you,” he asks the darkness.

His voice comes out so rough he hardly recognises it as his own. His throat feels wrecked; he wants to hack and cough the moment he finishes speaking, body shaking with the effort to hold the urge back. The alternative would be far worse.

He gets no answer, the silence stretching out long enough Grayson feels exhaustion taking hold of him again. And then there’s the skipping of stone on stone, close enough to cut through the fog inside his head, and he reaches a clumsy hand towards the sound.

His fingers close around another pebble. Grayson clutches it tightly, and lets fatigue take him once more.

* * *

“Tell me why you’re in that cell.”

Sprawled on his back, Grayson stares up at the ceiling with bleary eyes.

He’d woken up like this … he doesn’t know how long ago now, in all honesty. If he thought back on that first day that he was losing track of time, in no way does it compare to how he feels now. It’s an entirely foreign concept to him. All he has are these brief moments of cognizance, laid out and taking stock of himself with what little energy he has left, before they haul him off to the cistern again.

This most recent time they dragged him there twice, what he can only assume was morning and night. It had almost been too much. Even the most animal of instincts gives way to exhaustion, eventually.

Perhaps that explains why they’ve left him alone, at least for the time being.

His entire body feels numb. It’s as though his mind and flesh are no longer entwined; like he could blink, and look down at his body from outside himself, and it wouldn’t be surprising. He should be curled in on himself, conserving what little heat remains in him, but he can’t convince himself to move.

And so he lies there, staring at the ceiling and speaking to a hole in the wall.

There’s a stone buried safely beneath his palm, no larger than any of the others. He has a small collection of them now, lined up alongside the hole from every time the stranger has flicked them at him, just as he’d done moments ago. It was the sole reason Grayson had asked his question just now, the stranger giving himself up with another pebble sent his way.

… Perhaps he ought to use _those_ to mark the days.

A few more seconds of silence pass, and then:

“You truly are relentless, aren’t you,” the stranger says.

Grayson gives a hum, as content a sound as he can make at present.

“If I’m to perish as we both expect then surely you have nothing to lose.”

Their first conversation is still clear in Grayson’s mind, one of the few things that is, so he realises just how likely it is that he’ll get an answer. They both know the stranger owes him nothing. But at this point, why _wouldn’t_ he ask?

He fancies he can hear the thoughts turning over inside the other man’s head as he ponders his actions. Grayson doesn’t rush him, just blinks slowly, traces the imperfections above with his eyes. He has more than enough time to wait.

A shifting sound comes from the other side of the hole.

“You are familiar with this place, yes? With the Order, and her Knights?”

“Intimately.”

“I imagine you’ll understand the weight of what I say next, then.” The stranger pauses, gravitas and suspense building even through the wall. “I murdered the son of the Lord Chancellor.”

It takes a moment for Grayson to comprehend what he’s just heard.

“… What?”

The stranger gives no response. That alone should be enough to make him doubt, to say nothing of how utterly _bizarre_ and unexpected his claim had been. A declaration such as his should make no sense. It should be impossible. And yet with every passing second that the silence grows, so too does the churning in his gut.

Grayson now feels firmly, uncomfortably rooted back in his body. He struggles to force himself up, staring at the space in the wall.

“How?” he asks, voice ragged.

“He was young, and foolish. He trusted when he ought to have shown caution, and for that I killed him.”

“But that was years ago. Decades. Longer, even –”

Again the stranger says nothing. Grayson’s mouth has gone dry. His heart is pounding more intensely than he can handle; his body feels weak with it, his head swimming. More than that, the possibilities he’s now forced to consider …

Could he truly be speaking with the one responsible for Alastair d’Argyll’s death?

Would the Lord Chancellor condemn a man to such a cruel and drawn-out fate?

… Considering his own current position, perhaps he doesn’t need to question that particular aspect.

“Who are you?”

The stranger makes a thoughtful noise. “You may call me … Lucan.”

“I refuse to call you that,” Grayson snaps, reaction immediate and visceral.

“It’s the only name you’ll get from me.”

Grayson shakes his head viciously. It doesn’t matter that the stranger can’t see it, doesn’t matter that it leaves him verging on nauseous. That he would even think of making such a suggestion –

It’s vile, and disrespectful, and it tells him all he needs to know about this man.

“You’re despicable.”

The stranger laughs – or, at least he thinks it’s a laugh, a dry, wracking sound like the crackling of old parchment. Grayson doesn’t want to hear any more. He pushes himself away, back closer towards the door, and regrets every second he spent wondering about the man behind the wall.

* * *

Alastair d’Argyll – son of the Lord Chancellor, brother to Isabeau, fallen member of their ranks. To Grayson he’d almost only ever been Sir Lucan. They’d shared a closeness, of course, the kind of familiarity those working towards a common goal naturally forged; with Grayson’s attachment to Isabeau he perhaps had more of an opportunity than the other Knights to deepen their bond. And yet such a thing wasn’t meant to be. Alastair had been the quiet sort, polite but distant, intensely focused on his work. But there was an ambition in him, too, a drive to be the best among them, to lead.

“He’ll petition for Knight Commander soon enough,” Perceval had said to him once, quietly, “and it won’t be entirely thanks to his father that he’ll secure the title.”

Grayson had frowned. “Would that sit well with you?”

“He’s welcome to it. Lord knows I’ve had my fill.”

He hadn’t even seen Alastair before his final mission. It was something completely pedestrian, so lacking in risk he’d ventured off to see to it alone. Only he never returned. And when the Lord Chancellor summoned them to council a few days later it was with grave news.

London police had discovered a scene not far from Alastair’s last known location. There they found copious amounts of blood, tattered pieces of his uniform, and, most damningly, his Blackwater vial. An ambush, of some kind.

The Lord Chancellor seemed a shadow of himself in that moment.

The news shocked the Order to its core, a blow so sudden it was nearly impossible to comprehend. Perceval remained Knight Commander, reluctant but with his hands bound. Isabeau had clung to hope, some desperate belief that her brother yet lived, but as weeks turned to months turned to years that hope died, slowly but surely. It had hardened her, left her with a coldness that seeped into every part of her being, and not even Grayson could manage to dispel it.

* * *

Thinking about him now, Grayson has a hard time remembering what Alastair had looked like. He has pieces of him – pale skin, reddish hair, and a solemn, proud expression – but none of it adds up to a full picture. Neither can he recall the sound of his voice, no matter how he concentrates.

It unsettles him far more deeply than he would’ve imagined.

* * *

“You were a Knight?” the man asks.

“I was.”

“What did you call yourself?”

Grayson frowns. “Why would you care?”

“He spoke to me of his life. Perhaps I’ll have heard of you.”

Grayson chews on the inside of his lip, considering. This situation is no less bizarre than it was when it first came to light, and he still isn’t entirely sure what to make of it. They’ve hardly spoken since the revelation; Grayson’s patience is worn thin with his fatigue, and simply recalling what’s been said is enough to make him so angry he can’t think straight. For his part, the man isn’t much of a conversationalist – and Grayson refuses to even _think_ of him as Lucan, even as he finds the name coming to him with increasing ease.

His curiosity picks away at him, however, insatiable in its hunger. If this man is truly responsible for the things he’s claimed – if he and Alastair really were in each other’s confidence – how much might he know?

Giving up his name would be a small price to pay for clarity.

Finally, he says, “Galahad.”

“… Galahad,” the man repeats, voice low.

Grayson fights off the shiver that crawls up his back at the sound of his name spoken in such a way. He’s expecting … he doesn’t know exactly what, but _something_ – some comment at his expense, or Alastair’s, something that would make him regret yielding even this much ground. Instead, the man says nothing. Grayson is sure he’s mulling it over, filing it away for later use; he can all but hear the man’s thoughts from this side of the wall.

He waits, certain that something else is coming. The silence drags out for a long while before he hears:

“Tell me of the Order. Is Perceval still Knight Commander?”

Grayson stills. It should be impossible for him to feel the chill that rolls over him then, as cold as he already is. But he does.

“Sir Perceval is dead.”

His voice comes out steadier than he’s expecting. There’s a tension to it that’s plain to his own ears, the result of him fighting to hold himself together. It’s not anger this time, but a despair so deep he feels it coiling inside his chest. His throat goes dry, and he swallows hard. His thoughts should be on the question, what it means that the man knows this much, but his grief makes it to the forefront of his mind first.

… God, Perceval …

If the man hears the strain in his words, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he asks, “And what of Sir Lucan’s sister? Isabeau?”

Grayson doesn’t even try to answer this time. He’s _tired_ , beaten down by sorrow and guilt and the weight of his own actions, and he doesn’t want to _think_ let alone speak. Carefully as he can, he rolls onto his side, puts his back to the wall and squeezes his eyes shut.

The man, by some small mercy, asks him nothing else.

* * *

They drag him to the cistern each and every day, twice daily trips becoming a more frequent occurrence. The redcoats ask him questions now, about his connections to Lakshmi and the Rebellion, what future plans they had for the United India Company. They use not just the cistern but their fists and their feet as well, finding all the weakest parts of him, laying into him without remorse.

His exhaustion grows with every one of these ‘sessions’, a chasm he can’t pull himself free from. Life has devolved into little more than a pair of separate moments – the agony of torture, and the fleeting bouts of consciousness that follow. Sometimes he doesn’t even remember being brought back to his cell, and it’s as though he never leaves that little chamber. He rarely has the energy to move after they’ve returned him to his prison.

Lucan is waiting for him every time they dump his body inside, even when Grayson blacks out too quickly to remember. He no longer announces himself with the flicking of pebbles; instead, he speaks. Falteringly, at first, like he has to remind himself how it’s done. But with every return of Grayson’s he grows more confident, his low voice less ragged and more intimate.

Lucan tells him how many slabs of rock comprise his cell, and how many times he’s counted them. He tells him of conversations he’s overheard: redcoats with mistresses, and gambling problems, and those who enjoy their occupation more than one should. He tells him the many and varied names he’s made up for the many and varied guards who have brought him meals over the years.

“You must be a truly special individual, Galahad, having so many callers,” he says at one point. “I can’t remember the last time someone deigned to visit me.”

It startles a bleak laugh out of Grayson, hastily cut off as his chest lurches in pain.

He tells him, as an aside, that the food has always been as horrible as Grayson no doubt finds it to be, and lists all the things he’d eat were he ever to have his freedom again.

Sometimes it all sounds like nonsense, Grayson’s mind unable to discern the words. In those moments he stops trying, lets his eyes close and the timbre of that voice roll over him instead. He can almost imagine Lucan is there in the cell with him.

He never speaks of himself, of his life before, or of Alastair. And Grayson doesn’t ask, doesn’t try to force the issue. He only listens, holds on to every word like a lifeline, and knows the next time he’ll get to hear one of Lucan’s ramblings is never far away.

* * *

“You never did tell me what it was that had you delivered here.”

“… As I recall you saw no point in our speaking.”

“That was before I came to understand how utterly stubborn you are.”

Grayson scoffs, the noise cut off sharply as pain spears through his chest.

He lies near enough to the wall that his arm almost brushes it when he moves, his face lined up with the gap in the stone. When Lucan speaks it’s close in his ear, so much so he can imagine the other man lying there in similar fashion, mirroring one another without conscious thought. His voice is warm with amusement, though not at Grayson’s expense, and it’s so different to what he knows of him that he can’t help but listen closer, playing the words over again in his mind.

It’s a strange sort of camaraderie they’ve fallen into recently, one that he can’t quite explain – just as he can’t explain the ease with which he’s taken to calling him _Lucan_. It still sits uneasily with him; they aren’t friends, or allies, and he can’t allow himself to forget that. He finds, however, that he struggles with using that name less and less with every instance.

“Come along, Galahad,” Lucan says. “Time is precious; surely you’ve realised that by now? Don’t keep a man waiting.”

And yet here I am wasting it speaking with you, Grayson thinks to himself, though not entirely maliciously.

His reluctance is a powerful thing. It’s not a matter of preserving his honour; nothing of that remains. Perhaps it’s that this is the last significant piece of his life, and to give it up would be like losing one more part of himself. But then, what part of him _hasn’t_ he lost here in these catacombs?

The only currency the both of them have is time, and Lucan seems sure to outlast him in that regard. Would it be such a surrender, for someone else to know the truth?

He takes in as deep a breath as he can, holds it, lets it out again. “I betrayed my duties and my fellow Knights. I committed treason of the highest order.”

“… You cannot imagine I’ll be satisfied with _that_ ,” Lucan says. “Go on, then. Tell me all of it.”

So Grayson tells him.

* * *

It had begun in Mayfair, destruction wrought by bedlamites that ended with a Lycan corpse in the streets. Perceval had alerted them to it from the Palace, as he so often did, doing his best to conceal the yearning in his voice. Stagnancy didn’t suit him. The Lord Chancellor was eager to keep his Knight Commander near at hand, however, and so Perceval had little choice but to play along. Lafayette was as close as an excitable apprentice ever remained, and Isabeau was always eager to sharpen her skills; between them, they had contained the threat.

What evidence they could recover or extract had pointed to Whitechapel.

Perceval had supported his curiosity on the matter, which came as no surprise. Neither did the Lord Chancellor’s disapproval. Tension had hung thick in the air as Perceval eventually backed down.

“Do what needs to be done,” he had said after, he and Grayson standing together outside the council chamber, his voice low with fury.

“You’re certain?”

“Whatever the outcome, I will bear the responsibility. Our order grows too prudent, Grayson. We wither away from this inaction.”

Grayson had nodded, a plan already forming in his head. It was a risky move, for Perceval as much as them, but he had trusted in his mentor. With Lafayette and Isabeau waiting he had made to leave, before Perceval had called him back.

“Take care of the lad, Grayson,” he’d said, and nodded towards Lafayette.

“He deserves a better mentor. You should have been the one to guide him.”

“I would have enjoyed the opportunity. But do not discount your own abilities, old friend.”

Perceval had clasped him on the shoulder, and that was that.

Whitechapel had led them to the Rebellion, to the London Hospital, Lycans on the roof, and Lafayette had objected but remained behind when Grayson ordered him to maintain the perimeter. Inside –

A Lycan Elder, mangy and ravenous. It had hunted him from the bowels of the building to its highest rooms, strong for all it didn’t look it. Its hands were wrapped around Grayson’s throat when Isabeau had struck, fire axe in hand.

She had been the one to kill it, in the end. She’d sat beside him, his head in her lap, until he came back to himself. She said nothing the entire time.

Those words were reserved for the discovery she’d made within. A cache of the Rebellion’s, a staging area for an assault against the _Agamemnon_ , against the United India Company and Lord Hastings. And Grayson –

Grayson had done what he thought he had to, and contacted Perceval.

“… I’m on my way to you now,” he’d said immediately.

“What –”

“The _Agamemnon_ is already airborne. Find some means of making your way aboard.”

“Perceval, the Lord Chancellor –”

“Bugger the Lord Chancellor. The Order is not what it once was; I refuse to sit quietly and continue to play this role.”

And so Perceval had been there when they took the ship. He was there when Grayson thwarted the plot to kill Lord Hastings, when the explosion rocked the airship, when the desperate evacuation begun. He was there when the second explosive knocked them out of the sky.

Grayson had been the one to find him, there in the wreckage.

It would be an image he’d carry with him for the rest of his days.

And before he’d even had the chance to truly think about it, before his apprentice could assure him that he was ready, Lafayette was being knighted. Sir Perceval is dead, long live Sir Perceval.

The attack on Westminster Bridge had been a welcome distraction. Even without a Knight Commander to guide and assist them; even with Isabeau shouting at him as he forged ahead. It wasn’t enough that Hastings was safe. Perceval was dead, and they had to be made to pay.

His path of destruction had taken him back to Whitechapel, to the Rebellion – and its queen. Lakshmi Bai, Rani of Jhansi – but rather than allowing their introduction to devolve into a bloodbath, she had spoken to him clearly, calmly. Even in the face of his anger she had remained undaunted, had stood her ground and stared him down.

He wasn’t so foolish as to take the allegations she’d spouted at face value, and so he’d followed her to Blackwall Yard. There, he’d found the proof he’d demanded of her.

Vampires. An entire warehouse of them, waiting to be transported around the world, the containers holding them marked with the United India Company’s brand. The accusation that Lord Hastings was one himself was nearly lost in the desperate rush to destroy the cargo, and Grayson had tried not to think about the implications of his own actions.

The Lord Chancellor had refused to even listen to him, let alone view what remained of Blackwall Yard. Standing there, alone in the council chamber, Grayson had known he couldn’t simply leave well enough alone.

Isabeau had been there in the hallway as he stepped outside. She’d watched him with a severe expression, not a word spoken between them before Grayson had left.

It was a fool’s plan, a fact that Lakshmi was all too happy to tell him. But she had met him at the United India House regardless, alongside her daughter and another member of her rebel retinue. Even before he’d made it over the wall and into the garden things had turned messy; what should have been a quiet infiltration quickly became a firefight, United India men swarming from every other room. Devi had been sent away before the fighting became too vicious, the three of them forcing their way through. There could be no doubt Lord Hastings knew of their approach. As they’d entered the archives room, however, there wasn’t a soul to be found, and he and Lakshmi had busied themselves searching for evidence.

By the time they’d looked up again Lakshmi’s rebel had vanished.

It hadn’t taken them long to find him, throat torn out, dropped at the feet of a Vampire –

At the feet of Lord Hastings.

Grayson had fought off his confusion and disgust, only for his anger to fill the void. It had been easy, to stare into that face and draw his blade. Hastings had only looked back at him, a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth. He’d barely moved to defend himself as the pair of them closed in, as Grayson struck –

There had come a sound from behind, and he turned to see Isabeau standing there, Lafayette just behind her shoulder.

“Lady Igraine!” Hastings had shouted suddenly. “Please, the rebel leader, and Sir Galahad – he’s lost his mind!”

Time had seemed to slow, and Grayson had become intimately aware of the picture he presented. Side by side with Lakshmi, weapons in both their hands; Lord Hastings, alone and seemingly vulnerable; Grayson’s blade, bloodied, and the corresponding wound at Hastings’ shoulder.

Isabeau’s face had grown darker and more furious with every heartbeat.

“Run,” he’d managed to say to Lakshmi, moments before Isabeau stormed the room.

It was no surprise what came next. Lafayette had been made to do the honours, taking him into custody as Isabeau peered out the window, searching for a sign of Lakshmi. Their assault had been too loud after all, only it had brought down more than just the United India men upon them.

The trial had followed swiftly after. The Lord Chancellor hadn’t involved himself – hadn’t needed to, with the weapon in Grayson’s hand and the evidence on Lord Hastings’ body. Isabeau had been keeping a closer eye than Grayson knew, having witnessed not only the meeting between her father and him, but his rendezvous with Lakshmi in Whitechapel. She’d kept the knowledge to herself, hoping the truth was different than what she saw.

Now she knew better. And when the report of an assault against the United India House came through, she’d already been more than prepared.

There had been no other possible conclusion, no reason for the Knights to vote anything other than guilty. And yet he’d felt weighed down with every condemnation, until the final vote was cast and the Lord Chancellor had stood before him, resolute.

“The sentence is death.”

* * *

Lucan is silent for a long while after his story concludes, long enough that Grayson wonders if he lost interest, or simply stopped listening. He’s in the process of thinking of what to say when he hears movement from the other side of the wall, as though Lucan is shifting closer. And then:

“What a strange web you find yourself tangled in, dear Galahad.”

Grayson frowns, at the tone of his voice or the term of endearment or both; he doesn’t know. But he doesn’t question it, and neither say anything more.

* * *

He doesn’t move when they drop him this time. He barely hears the guards’ chuckles, or the door slamming closed; there’s a rushing in his ears that might be blood, might be water he’s carried back from the cistern, unable to escape it even here. He doesn’t try to fight the darkness creeping through his vision, just lets out a breath and allows himself to slip into it.

He’s not even sure that he’s awake when he comes back to himself. Wasn’t really sure he _would_ wake up, this time. Something must’ve done it, pulled him back into consciousness, though he doesn’t know what –

“Galahad?”

Grayson lies there a moment, breathing. Then he forces himself up as much as he can, drags his body across to the wall. All the air rushes out of him again as he collapses beside it.

Lucan doesn’t say anything for a very long time. Grayson almost misses the pebbles. It’s surprisingly easy to imagine him sitting there, next to the hole, though Grayson can only really conjure up the silhouette of him. It’s not quite enough, but it’s _something_.

And then, in a voice that’s incredibly gentle, Lucan says, “There is no shame in letting go. You’ve fought longer than most in your situation would, but there is only one way this will end.”

“You’re still here,” Grayson rasps.

“I have no choice in the matter. The Lord Chancellor refuses to let me die, and I cannot do the deed on my own.”

He smirks blindly up at the ceiling. “So long as you’re here, I’m not going anywhere.”

There’s a skittering sound barely a heartbeat before a pebble strikes him sharply along his arm. The sensation lasts only a moment before it’s lost to him. He doesn’t have the strength to reach for it.

“Stubborn fool,” Lucan hisses. “No man should be made to die in such a fashion. Wasting away to nothing.”

“I’ll be sure to pass along your complaints.”

He hears a sigh from the other side of the wall. There’s a dull thumping sound that follows, as though something’s been kicked over or tossed aside. Grayson lies there, silence stretching out between them. He’s having trouble keeping his eyes open, for all that he’s really only just woken up again; he thinks he can hear Lucan’s breathing from beyond the gap, though such a thing should be impossible. He likes to imagine that’s what it is, at any rate, the quiet, rhythmic in and out strangely soothing.

And then there’s the shifting of skin against stone, and Lucan’s voice, close to his ear:

“Make them fight for it, at least.”

Grayson hums in response, only half aware of what’s being said. It’s easy enough to agree to, knowing he’ll never have to act on it, knowing he’ll never even have the chance. Those words follow him into the dark as he blacks out again, the sound of Lucan’s voice as he speaks to Grayson, or perhaps himself.

“… Mankind’s unbound cruelty.”

* * *

They drag him out of his cell half conscious, his legs barely able to hold his own weight. Awareness returns with every stumbling step, his body giving him no peace, every jolt planting him more firmly in the here and now instead of allowing him to slip under like he so desperately wants to. The redcoats taunt him, as they always do; between his own ragged breathing and the noise in his head he hardly hears them.

The cistern looms, inevitable.

He can’t push himself away from the stone. It wouldn’t do him any good even if he had the strength.

“There. Not so hard, was it?”

Shackles lock around his wrists. One of the redcoats pulls him up by the neck.

“Here we go again.”

They force him under.

The water makes his eyes burn, even as its chill threatens to steal what little breath he has. It’s always colder than he remembers, forcing its way up his nose, past the seam of his mouth until he’s sure _this is it_ , this is the time he’s going to choke, the redcoat’s hand forcing him down, down, down –

They yank his head back and for a moment he chokes on air instead, hacking and spluttering as he coughs up water. His throat is raw, his body shaking; he struggles back against the man holding him in place, nothing left in him but instinct.

“Put him back in!” He hears, and barely has time to take a breath before they shove him down again.

And Grayson thrashes in his grip, desperate and wild with it, yanking his arms and pushing back against that grasp –

_Make them fight for it_

– until finally something gives, and his hand comes free, the shackle still locked firmly around his wrist. Grayson’s entire body moves with the sudden freedom, the shift in balance enough to throw the redcoat off guard. Grayson shoves hard as he all but throws himself out of the water. The hand disappears from his neck; he catches just a glimpse of the man sprawled on the ground before the second is coming at him with a shout. Grayson grabs the spike still hanging from his shackle, buries it in the man’s neck. He doesn’t feel the blood that spurts against his hand as he pulls it free.

The first redcoat has already recovered, on his feet and charging, fist pulled back. Grayson ducks the swing, uses the man’s momentum and his own body to press him against the cistern. He struggles; Grayson bears down with all the strength left in him, and with one final shove the guard’s head is below the water.

It takes less time than he’s expecting for the man to go limp.

Grayson slumps to the floor, breathing hard. He gives himself just a moment to catch his breath and it’s then that he spots the key, halfway between him and the man still bleeding out.

He can’t afford to wait; another guard could come past at any second. He reaches out, arms screaming with the effort, fingers clawing at the empty air. It’s just barely out of his grasp, and if he stretches any more he’s sure he’ll pull his own arm from its socket –

Metal brushes his fingertips and he drags the key forward, relief bursting sweet in his chest even as his hands shake unshackling himself. It’s a small victory, one he can’t linger on. He needs to move, needs to find some way out before all of this was for naught. Fight while there’s still life left in him.

He makes it a step before he thinks of Lucan.

He’s never heard them take him from his cell, but theirs are right beside each other. Surely …?

He’s rifling through pockets before he has time to consider otherwise. Someone or something must be looking out for him – the drowned guard’s body yields a ring of keys, a half dozen or so of them clinking against one another as he pulls them free. Grayson clutches to them tightly as he staggers out.

He remembers the way back to his cell, for the most part. There’s another path to his left, all lit up, and it’s a risk but he stumbles his way down the passage, one hand pressed to the wall to keep himself upright, ears pricked for any sound. The passage is only a short one, a few cells to either side, a grate set into the wall at the far end.

One of the doors is open. With any luck one of the guards has been careless, or stupid, or both, and left behind something he can use.

He nearly loses his footing in the doorway, the pain in his side he’s been fighting to ignore flaring to life. It’s so fierce that for a moment he can’t breathe. He forces himself to his feet regardless, pushes further into the room. There’s a revolver on the workbench, and he seizes upon it like a starving man, checks the barrel.

Empty.

“Just my luck …”

Even an empty gun can buy him a few seconds of surprise. Revolver in hand, he doubles back towards his cell, every clink of the keys and snippet of overheard conversation enough to make his heart trip. Every step is a battle; it feels like it takes an eternity before he comes to a familiar passage, only the faintest flicker of light illuminating the cells. The door to his is still open. Beside it …

Grayson shoves the revolver into the back of his trousers, stumbles his way down and braces himself against the doorframe.

“Lucan,” he says, and his voice comes out a rasp, “Lucan, it’s me.”

For a moment there’s nothing, and then, closer than he expects:

“Galahad?”

He almost slumps against the door in relief, just barely keeps himself upright.

“I have keys. I’ll get you out.”

“ _What_ –”

“There’s no time.” He tries a key; it doesn’t fit. _Fuck_. “Hold on.”

There’s silence from the other side of the door. He hates it, as much as he asked for it; now all he can hear is the rattle of his breath and the pounding of his heart in his ears, every second spent waiting for the cry to go up, to hear boots thudding against the stonework, closer and closer and _closer_ –

His hands are shaking. He fumbles the keyring, nearly drops it as he goes to attempt another. His grip turns white-knuckled and he finally slides one home, twists blindly.

It doesn’t move.

Grayson stares. There’s a quiet in his head now and it’s deafening, just barely drowning out the litany of _no no no_ that’s started. He turns it again. The key doesn’t budge. He tries to pull it free but it’s stuck tight and Grayson grits his teeth against the noise that desperately wants to claw its way from his throat.

“Come _on_ , damn you …!”

The rusted edges of the key dig into his palm as he turns it one more time –

The key shifts, ever so slightly, and then with a horrible scraping sound the damn thing finally turns.

“God,” he mutters, jams his shoulder against the door to shove it open, “Lucan –”

Even with the light spilling in from the doorway the cell is dark, impossibly so. Grayson squints into the gloom. He could swear there’s something towards the rear of the room, a shadowy outline of a form. He takes a step inside.

A hand stretches out from the dark, faster than he can see. It grabs him by the shoulder and pushes him back towards the wall, and he hits the stone with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, the disorientation enough to pin him there. Grayson’s reaching for the hand before he even has time to think, but it’s then that he feels the sharp pinpricks against his neck, and the strange texture of the arm beneath his hand, and the shadow looming over him isn’t a shadow at all but Lucan’s _body_.

He’s a Lycan. He’s been talking with a _Lycan_ this _entire time_ –

“Which way?”

The words yank him into the present, the deep, guttural growl that is the Lycan’s voice rumbling through his own chest. Hearing them speak is nothing new, but his mind is slow with shock and it’s enough to make his thoughts stick. Breath washes hot over his cheeks. There’s something human in that face still, beneath the rough skin and hair and black-gold eyes. Words lodge uselessly in his throat.

Not just a Lycan, but an Elder Lycan too, how could he be so _stupid_?

… The revolver is still wedged into his trousers. Lucan wouldn’t know it isn’t loaded –

The hand still gripping his shoulder thumps him against the wall, not gentle but not quite enough to hurt.

“ _Where_ is the _exit_ , Galahad?”

Grayson swallows hard. Following the paths through the cells would have been dangerous even before this … _revelation_ , but the only cause he’s ever had to visit the Palace’s lower levels has been to call on Nikola. The catacombs are likely as familiar to him as they are to Lucan.

He finally manages to drag his eyes away from that face – _those teeth_ – and looks to either side. Surely there must be something. Hadn’t he seen a grate barring a gap in the wall? It had looked large enough to crawl through.

“There. The far end.”

Lucan follows his gesture. After a moment he nods, but rather than releasing him like Grayson’s expecting the hand curls into his shirt instead, Lucan pulling him along.

“Stay behind me.”

It takes him a few tries to get his feet under him; only once he has does Lucan release him. He lags behind regardless, though it’s not entirely due to shock. Every muscle screams in protest and hurts old and new alike make themselves known, as though now that he’s attempting his escape his body has finally decided to give in. The fire in his side is only growing, not enough adrenaline in the world to mask the pain. Perhaps Lucan was rougher than he thought – the sparks shooting through his back are testament to that – but he can only hunch over so far before he ends up crawling.

Lucan’s already at the grate, one hand curled around the bars, head cocked to one side.

He’s … thin, especially for an Elder. It might just be his eyes but it seems to Grayson he’s missing patches of hair in places, too. But then, he would be poorly, wouldn’t he? If he’s been imprisoned as long as he claimed? Can he even believe that anymore?

He’s almost reached the grate when he hears Lucan _growl_. There’s the crunch of metal then, uncomfortably loud in the quiet corridor. The cry he’s been waiting to hear all this time finally comes but he almost misses it entirely as the metal crunches again, and Lucan throws to the floor –

A padlock. God’s blood, how …

The grate bars swing open. Lucan turns to him. “Go, quickly.”

“You’re not serious.”

“You’d rather end up back in that cell?” Lucan snarls, looming over him.

Grayson grits his teeth against the pain and his instincts both and levers himself into the tunnel.

He can only force himself to move so quickly, in such a cramped space and with every part of him protesting as they are. He’s just barely past the halfway point when he hears a shuffling sound behind him. Between the cold stone and his exhaustion he’s not sure if he’s imagining the heat radiating over his back; he forces himself to keep looking ahead. Letting a Lycan come this close sets off every warning his body’s still capable of screaming at him, ugly, inherent notions of _predator_ and _prey_.

An attack now wouldn’t make sense, he tells himself. It doesn’t stop him from expecting those jaws to close around the back of his neck.

Grayson clambers out of the tunnel and nearly straight into a beam of light, a guard from across the way looking all too curiously in his direction. He catches himself just in time, hunkering down behind the wooden barrier. He’s peering through the gaps when he feels Lucan behind him, a solid presence nearly leaning over him entirely, and were this any other moment he might wonder at the image they surely make. But then there’s a _roar_ from the opposite end of the chamber, and Grayson’s looking towards the sound without even thinking.

The lantern beam shifts, and he watches as the guard hurries down the passage to join his fellows, struggling with the source of the noise. There’s another Lycan down there, bellowing and thrashing against the bars of their cage; the shouts of the men are almost indistinguishable against the din.

“Move,” Lucan growls, “now, while they’re distracted.”

Grayson’s already pushing himself along, as fast as his legs will carry him without crumpling. The barrier to his side helps, as does the thought of Lucan stalking after him; he risks a glance behind to find him hunched, eyes glinting in the low light. The sounds of the struggle only grow louder the closer they creep, and then one of the guards _screams_ , a roar following right behind.

The Lycan has him by the arm, yanking him up against the bars as the man fights to free himself. Grayson pauses there a moment, watching the other guards try to pull him back. No matter what happens next, it won’t be pleasant. Sure enough, mere seconds later one of them starts firing desperate shots into the cell, and the Lycan snarls but the man is still being pulled against the bars –

Grayson clenches his teeth and pushes himself onward. There’s light ahead, a small passage leading to a larger room; with any luck they can pass through unseen.

And then he stumbles, legs nearly going out from under him as he slumps into the wall beside him.

“Galahad –”

“It’s fine,” he grits out, “I’m fine –”

Lucan takes hold of his arm, and Grayson flinches so hard he nearly misses how that hand is easing him up, steadying him on his feet. His heart is pounding, so fast it’s almost dizzying, so hard it’s surely audible. The rush of adrenaline he’d felt is burning off already, leaving the exhaustion free to hit even harder, and just for a moment he leans into that hand, lets this Lycan be the reason his feet stay under him. Lucan is staring down at him, looking as ragged as Grayson feels. But there’s determination there, too, and his grip is strong.

The hum of machinery snaps them both out of the moment, and Grayson looks towards the noise to find –

An elevator shaft. Someone’s coming down.

Grayson forces himself upright, reaching back for his looted revolver. From the darkening corners of his vision he sees Lucan watch the movement, eyes caught on the gun as he pulls his hand back.

“Where did you find …?”

Grayson shakes his head, aiming for the elevator, too busy trying to steady his shaking arm.

The elevator finally descends, the gates pulled open.

Nikola Tesla steps out.

Grayson stares, then sags in relief, all the breath rushing out of him. Nikola makes it a few steps before he catches sight of them. Then his mouth drops open, and his eyes grow wide.

Lucan storms towards him, one hand reared back.

“Lucan,” Grayson rasps, voice urgent, “Lucan, stop, he’s a friend –”

But Lucan isn’t stopping, and Nikola is holding both hands up now, backing towards the wall, so Grayson does the only thing he can think to do.

He throws the revolver right at Lucan.

It strikes him in the meat of his back. Lucan turns, snarling. Grayson’s surprised he managed to land a hit at all, eyes and arms failing as they are; it wasn’t a strong hit, but enough to distract him, and that’s all he could’ve hoped for.

“He’s a _friend_ ,” Grayson says, glaring at Lucan and staggering towards them.

“Sir Galahad?”

Nikola’s breathing hard, his eyes impossibly wide as he stares at them. As Grayson steps closer Nikola’s gaze sweeps him up and down, face going pale at what he sees. He reaches out a hand, stepping forward –

Lucan _growls_ , deep in his chest, and Nikola jerks back against the wall again.

“Fuck’s sake,” Grayson rasps.

“Please, I mean you no harm,” Nikola is saying, hands in the air again. “I didn’t know – Sir Galahad, I had no idea that you were –”

Grayson clasps his arm, and it’s as much to hold himself up as it is to comfort the other man. “Nikola, please. Tell no one that you saw us.”

“O-of course.”

Grayson gives him a grim smile, then turns to the elevator. He just barely manages to snag the revolver from the ground; a few uneasy steps and he’s at the gates. Looking back, he finds Lucan hasn’t moved, still staring down Nikola with a rumble in his throat. And Nikola is staring back, some of that fear changing instead to curiosity. Lucan backs down first, though with obvious reluctance; he doesn’t take his eyes off Nikola as he backs towards the elevator.

Suddenly Nikola makes a noise of alarm. “Wait! Please, wait, I have something –”

He reaches into his pocket, and Lucan goes still immediately. Grayson can’t see what it is he offers out, only that it fits within his palm; before he can move close enough to pass it over Lucan swipes it out of his hand.

“Easy, Lucan,” he warns, and gives Nikola a nod as Lucan shuts the gates between them.

The last thing Grayson sees as he shifts the lever and the elevator jumps to life is Nikola’s perplexed face.

“Lucan?”

And then he disappears from sight, and the two of them stand in silence as the elevator climbs.

“Here.”

Grayson jolts. Lucan’s hand is stretched out towards him; Grayson offers up his own, and he places something gently into his palm.

It’s his Blackwater vial.

Grayson sighs in relief. He doesn’t even try to wonder how Nikola came to possess it, just slips the chain over his head, tucks the vial inside his shirt. The weight of it feels enormous around his neck, but he’s never been more thankful for it.

How much will he need to make it out of this? More than what his vial holds, he thinks. He’s almost afraid to drink, lest it go to waste. When they’re out, he tells himself, when he has a chance to rest, and let the elixir do its work uninterrupted. He’ll drink it then.

He can feel Lucan’s eyes on him, enough to make him uncomfortable. He finally looks over, and Lucan nods towards the revolver.

“Be grateful that didn’t go off.”

“It isn’t loaded.”

Lucan blinks at that. Grayson doesn’t think he’s ever seen an expression of such complete and sincere surprise on a Lycan’s face before, and it almost makes him laugh.

The elevator begins to slow, and as it reaches its destination Lucan peers out first, careful hands resting on the gates before he pulls them open. Grayson edges along the wall, as fast as he can make his body move. Lucan has taken a few cautious steps out, and Grayson looks around him to find an empty hall, the pale light of morning pouring in through the windows. It’s hard to concentrate; his vision and thoughts are swimming both, but he thinks they must still be somewhere around the lower levels.

It isn’t safe. Nowhere here is safe. They need to keep moving; they need to find some way out before they’re found, before his body fails entirely.

He pushes himself along, past the gates, Lucan just barely ahead of him.

And then from around a corner a pair of redcoats appear.

There’s a moment where everything is still, and silent. And then:

“God above.”

“Holy shit, that’s him. That’s the convict!”

Their weapons come up. Lucan’s already stepping back, arms thrown wide as he bodily pushes Grayson back inside the elevator. Shots ring out barely a second later, and Grayson struggles to keep his feet as he bumps into the wall, hand snapping out to grab the lever on instinct alone. Lucan’s body is between his and the open space, one hand reaching out blindly to slam the gates shut. Gunfire is still raining down on them even as the elevator jolts to life again.

Grayson’s breathing hard, head spinning and entire body aching, the wall the only thing holding him up. His hands are empty; he’s dropped the revolver at some point during the exchange.

“Were you hit?”

Lucan is standing right before him, hands against the wall to either side of his head, boxing him in. He pulls himself back slowly, casting a look over him from head to toe. Grayson doesn’t move, barely blinks; exhaustion is making him weak, letting some primitive fear take root inside him, his heart pounding from Lucan’s sheer proximity.

A sharp finger pokes him in the chest.

“Galahad. Were you hit?”

Grayson stares, not quite comprehending. He shakes his head.

There’s blood oozing sluggishly from a wound high on Lucan’s shoulder, deep red standing out against dark fur. Lucan pays it no mind, unbothered or unaware completely, while Grayson struggles to drag his eyes away from it.

The elevator takes them up and up and up.

“You have no idea where you’re going,” he rasps, watching Lucan turn towards the front again.

“We need to leave.”

“… going to get us both killed –”

With a jolt that nearly knocks the air out of him the elevator stops, Lucan wrenching the gates open a heartbeat later. And then without even looking he reaches one of those monstrous hands back, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him along, and Grayson makes a noise of protest even as his feet almost go out from under him.

They’re somewhere near the roof, they must be, and of all the places for them to end up –

He glances off to his left as they cross the floor, immediately freezes in place.

Lafayette stands there, interrupted mid-stride by the sight of them. Time seems to crawl as he stares at Grayson, before his gaze drifts to the larger, looming shape of the Lycan beside him. His eyes go wide, and he raises his revolver.

Lucan _snarls_ , yanking him forward with such strength Grayson’s arm very nearly comes out of its socket. A shot rings out barely a second later, piercingly loud; he doesn’t have time to wonder how close it came as Lucan barrels through the doors before them. It’s something else that steals his breath then, cold air diving right into his lungs, enough to make him stagger.

They’re outside, and it’s snowing, and there is nowhere for them to go.

“Lucan,” he grits out, “ _stop_ –”

Lucan’s head turns sharply, but he isn’t listening. Grayson can see the thoughts racing behind his eyes as he looks from the doorway behind them to the arch of the roof above, the edge of the parapet and the doors ahead –

Doors that burst open at that moment, a mix of Knights and guards swarming out onto the roof, their weapons at the ready. Isabeau is with them, Grayson realises, heart lurching at the sight. So focused on her presence is he that he almost doesn’t notice how Lucan’s edging backwards, the hand he’d been using to pull Grayson along now holding him in place before Lucan’s own body.

… using him as a _shield_?

Grayson doesn’t even have time to spit the word _coward_ as the Lord Chancellor himself marches out onto the rooftop.

“The play is over, Gala –”

And then he sees the Lycan standing behind him, and his words die in an instant.

Lucan is breathing heavily, every exhale a brief spot of warmth against his skin. His grip has turned to something bruising. Grayson struggles not to wince.

“The fuck’s he doing with a Lycan?”

“Hands on your head!”

The second shout comes from behind them, and Grayson turns to look even before Lucan shifts them bodily. A pair of redcoats stand there, rifles trained on them. There’s fear and fury both on their faces, and they look seconds away from firing. It’s at that moment Lafayette catches up to them; his revolver hasn’t left his hand, but with his other he reaches out to steady the aim of the guard.

“I can’t get a clear shot!”

Lafayette doesn’t take his hand from the barrel. The redcoat looks from him to the two of them, something desperate in his eyes.

“Galahad,” Isabeau cries, and Grayson finds himself drawn to her again. “Don’t do this!”

They move in some mockery of a dance, shifting between the two groups staring them down. Both his and Lucan’s backs are to the parapet now, Lucan’s hand still firmly clamped on him; Grayson doesn’t think he could pull away, even if he wanted to. What good would it do him anyway?

He’s the only thing keeping them from both being shot, at least for the moment.

His foot shifts back a fraction, closer to the parapet, and he feels Lucan shift with him.

“Hands up, I said!”

“You have betrayed our Order,” the Lord Chancellor declares, his voice ringing out as cold as the air around them. He doesn’t quite sound like himself, though Grayson’s too exhausted to be able to put a finger on how or why. But the length he’d been silent speaks volumes on its own, and he’s staring as much at Lucan as he is Grayson.

Spurred on by his resurgence the guards hold their weapons a little more steadily, creep a fraction closer.

“Surrender yourself!”

Slowly, Grayson begins to raise his hands. He edges back another step, and again Lucan moves with him.

Even from this distance he can see the anger that twists the Lord Chancellor’s face. “None may escape the penalty.”

“Galahad.”

Lucan’s body is a firm, warm line at his back, his voice a rumble loud in his ear, a warning and a question all at once. Grayson doesn’t need to look to know there’s no room left to move; he’s backed them right into the parapet. There’s only stone, and Grayson’s body between the slow advance of the Knights or the hail of their bullets.

Of all the ways to die, with a Lycan at his back and his friends thinking him a traitor.

He shifts his feet one last time, so cold he can no longer feel the stone beneath them. Lucan’s other hand twists around his hip, clenching just as tightly.

“Hold your breath,” Grayson says.

He shoves himself backwards with all the strength he has left.

Lucan reels, innate balance clinging to life before he gives himself over, and it’s as much those hands on him as Grayson’s own force that finally sends them plummeting.

The sound of gunfire and Isabeau shouting his name follows him all the way into the river.

* * *

Water, foul and cold, above and around and everywhere. His head breaks the surface and he heaves in a lungful of air, gasping and spluttering as the world reels overhead. There’s not a single part of him that isn’t screaming in pain. He thrashes against the water, desperate for another breath; he ends up with a mouthful of water instead as the river drags him down again.

The water stings his eyes. His clothes are so heavy, dragging along the current as he struggles. He can’t even _see_ the surface, how is that possible? There’s a rushing in his ears that might be the river, might be his own blood, and he thought he knew what cold was, there in the catacombs, but this is something else. His lungs burning for air is the only warmth left in him, and soon even that will be extinguished.

Something barrels into him from behind, knocks the rest of the breath out of him. A boat, or a buoy, he thinks dazedly, his vision going dark and his body slack. There’s pressure at his back, something winding around his chest and beneath his arms, the last sensation his mind registers before the world goes black.

He comes to coughing, body shuddering with every scrap of oxygen he manages to draw, too weak to even curl in on himself like he wants to. His chest feels like someone’s taken a mallet to it, like it might just cave in if he so much as thinks the wrong way, and it hurts but he drinks down every gulp of air he’s able.

There’s a face above him, dark and indistinct against an equally hazy sky. It disappears before he can focus on it. Hands curl tight around his shoulders a moment later, and the jolt that follows is enough to put him right back under.

* * *

Someone is carrying him.

He hangs, listless, over someone’s shoulder, and he can open his eyes just enough to see the ground tilt and whirl. The movement makes his head pound, and so he shuts his eyes again.

Their grip on him is steady, even if their steps aren’t. Grayson feels the impact of every uneven stride up and through his own body, but their hold never fails; however many times they pause, it’s never long before whoever it is starts trudging once more.

He cracks open one eyelid, nausea already churning in his guts, and catches sight of dark hair and a pair of long, naked legs.

… but that’s …

* * *

He’s dropped unceremoniously to the ground, and it rips a gasp of pain right out of him.

Not the ground, he realises dimly. There’s material beneath his fingers, soft but painfully thin. He can feel whatever’s beneath it easily, unyielding and solid. A mattress; a bedframe.

The impact still rattles through him, enough that he struggles to breathe through it; enough that he can hardly open his eyes through it. When he finally manages to, everything is dark and blurry.

He’s inside somewhere. He can make out no more than that.

Someone is muttering nearby, but the words have a strange tone to them, and he can’t quite make them out.

There are hands at his neck, working at his collar. Something sharp passes against his throat, and he shudders. The hands still, then resume their work.

Metal presses against his lips. There’s not enough left of him to think, just react; liquid fills his mouth, cool and slow. A hand cups his jaw, the other massaging his throat, urging him to swallow. So he does, some part of him aware enough to register the taste of Blackwater before agony tears through him, and he falls right back into unconsciousness.

* * *

“You’re shivering.”

He is. It’s rather kind of the voice to notice.

He doesn’t know when it started – doesn’t know much of anything beyond the ache in his limbs, the deep and endless cold that’s settled inside him. Has it been days since he first awoke with these shudders running through him? Hours?

A hand settles against his forehead, and it’s so warm he can’t help but lean into it.

“God above, Galahad.”

The hand disappears. He mourns its loss immediately.

Grayson cracks his eyes open, enough to see how close the stranger is sitting. So close he can see his face, and that’s another thing he doesn’t know – when he first saw the man. He doesn’t recognise him, that much he’s sure of. Not that there’s much _to_ recognise. The man’s face is pale, unnaturally so, much of it hidden behind a scraggly beard, his hair an equally unruly mess. In the low light he thinks it might be some shade of auburn, or a pale ginger. He watches Grayson now as he always seems to – as though he might vanish before his very eyes.

Grayson shivers again.

There are blankets piled atop him, ratty things that scratch against his fingertips when he pulls them closer to his body; they could be made from the finest material in all of England, for all that they fail to keep him warm. It’s like the cold of the catacombs and the river both have seeped into his skin, and if he concentrates, he imagines he can still feel the water’s chill in his clothes, a damp that hasn’t faded regardless of how long it’s been since their plunge.

The stranger frowns, lines carved deep in his gaunt face.

“Don’t murder me if you happen to remember this.”

The blankets disappear, and Grayson can’t even muster up a noise of disapproval, curling in on himself as shudders wrack him anew. All too quickly that is taken from him too, hands easing his arms to his sides, then brushing along the front of his shirt. Buttons are undone, the material slipped back to his shoulders and then pulled from his body entirely. Grayson wraps his arms around his chest, shaking, and doesn’t think about the hands now divesting him of his trousers, and shouldn’t he say something? Order him to stop? But the hands don’t touch him anywhere else, and his undergarments remain in place, and then the mattress shifts and there’s a body pressing against his own, and Grayson’s so stunned by the sudden warmth he almost doesn’t notice the blankets being settled over them.

The stranger is so, _so_ warm, bare skin against his own, and as he wraps an arm around his back Grayson lets out a shuddering breath, slumps forward into his chest without a fight.

He drifts off quickly after that, just barely aware of how the man is also shaking.

* * *

The next time he wakes he’s nowhere near as cold as he’d been. He’s dressed again, in fresh, dry clothing. The stranger sits on the floor not too far away, a blanket pulled around his shoulders and his back to him. He doesn’t turn to look at him for as long as Grayson’s awake.

* * *

He comes back to the world slowly, aware of nothing but his own body and the deep, exhaustive ache that no longer fills it quite so fully. There’s something – not _soft_ beneath his cheek, but it’s not stone, either, and surely that’s an improvement. It returns to him before he even opens his eyes, snippets of memory – a mattress, and blankets, and cold so profound he’s not sure he’ll ever feel its like again.

A body against his own, skin to skin, and a face he can’t quite recall, even with his eyes closed.

He lies there for a few long moments, listening, before he cracks one lid open.

He’s alone, as far as he can tell. That in and of itself is enough to have him inching upwards until he’s seated on the bed, and he can look around properly. The room is empty, in more than one sense of the word. It may have been a foreman’s office at one point, he thinks, evidence of racks hammered into the walls, exposed nails all that’s leftover in places. Against the wall to his left, wedged into the furthest corner, stands an empty, broken down shelf; opposite that is a workbench, and he can see the layer of dust covering its surface even from where he sits. They’re the sole furnishings in the room, besides the bed, which is itself a mystery. The wooden frame is simple, and creaks dangerously with every move he makes.

Above the bench is a window, half papered over, half boarded up, a rag shoved into one broken corner. Grey, washed out light filters through, barely illuminating the room; an unlit lantern sits by the bench, another hanging from the centre of the roof.

He’s easing his feet to the ground when the door directly across the room begins to open. Grayson freezes, his instincts nowhere near recovered enough to be of any use –

The man’s more than halfway through the door when he notices Grayson. A soft noise of surprise escapes him before he closes the door fully, hesitating where he stands.

“You’re awake,” he says. “Truly, this time.”

Grayson frowns, staring the man down. He’s thin, undeniably so. His shirt hangs loosely around his shoulders, easily a few sizes too large; a belt is cinched tightly around his waist, likely the only thing keeping his trousers from slipping off his hips. He’s pale, too, a colour verging on sickly, and perhaps it’s that detail that makes him think of the face from his memories.

He’s shaved away the scraggly mess that could be called a beard. His hair is shorter, too, swept back from his face; it still escapes the attempt at order in places, falling over his forehead or curling around the side of his neck.

They’re stark enough differences to give him pause, but he can see that hazy stranger in the man before him.

“How long have I been here?” Grayson asks.

“Two weeks. No time at all, for men like us.”

The stranger shrugs a shoulder, though he doesn’t look at all casual about it. He’s clutching a cloth bag in one hand, Grayson realises, and as he steps further into the room he reaches into it, removing a tin of food.

Grayson’s still stuck on his words.

_Men like us._

He’s been thinking of him as _the man_ and _the stranger_ , as though his identity is a mystery to him. But that isn’t quite accurate, is it?

It’s not really a surprise, if he’s being honest with himself. Who else could it have been that pulled him from the river? Who else would have stayed with him during his recovery? That he wouldn’t know him in his human state is a fair enough excuse, but not a foolproof one. Not when he recognises that voice, knows it down to his bones.

This is Lucan.

Grayson watches him move around, making what few checks he can of the building. There’s something equally graceful and awkward about him in that moment, almost as though he’s uncertain of himself, aware of the audience he now has. He doesn’t know how much of their time spent fleeing the catacombs is responsible for the image he has of Lucan then: that of a predator stalking his territory.

He only just manages to not flinch back as Lucan suddenly steps close, leaning down to collect a pitcher from beside the bed. He offers it out wordlessly, handle first.

Grayson hadn’t even seen it there. He takes it carefully, looks into the liquid before he brings it to his mouth.

The water tastes stale, though still drinkable. He takes a few long sips before he passes it back to Lucan, who takes a drink of his own and then settles the pitcher back on the ground. When he stands again there’s a tin in his hand, a cloth wrapped tightly around its top. Bewildered, Grayson arches himself up to look down at either end of the bed, Lucan going about removing the covering in the edges of his vision. Just what else hasn’t he noticed?

At one end, the pitcher and a small collection of tinned food stand gathered in the darkest shadows of the room; at the other, a small pile of what looks like clothing.

Lucan has been busy, it seems.

“Hungry?”

Grayson eyes him, and the tin. He shakes his head. Lucan shrugs, tips some of whatever’s inside into his mouth.

There’s something deeply odd about all of this, in a way he’s not sure he wants to examine more closely. Lucan paces as he finishes his mouthful, a few steps between them. It’s enough to make him feel conspicuous, idle as he is, and he pushes himself to his feet without thinking twice.

His body is a filthy traitor. His legs don’t hold the strength they should, unsteady beneath him before he can even try to move; his head spins, as though he’s stood too fast, and he’s cursing himself for such ridiculousness even as he feels himself lurch –

A hand curls around his arm, holding him secure. He moves fast, Grayson thinks, still a little wobbly, and when he looks up Lucan’s eyes are burning right through him.

“Easy.”

Grayson nods, and slowly lowers himself back to the bed. Lucan’s fingers tighten briefly before he releases his grip, dragging against his arm as he pulls back. He stands there a moment, looming over him, before realisation lights his eyes. Lucan steps back, putting a few paces between them before he settles there on the ground.

If he’d been trying to make himself seem smaller it only half works, as he watches with such intensity Grayson feels unease churn in his gut. He can see the predator in him then, in the stillness of his body and the cunning in his eyes. It’s a different sort of apprehension, seeing him like this, than the kind the sight of his Lycan form evokes, though no less potent.

Does Lucan even realise the way he’s staring at him?

Grayson curls his feet against the freezing stone floor and tries not to shudder.

“Tell me your name,” Lucan says abruptly. “I cannot simply call you Galahad for however long we remain here.”

He frowns at that, but Lucan doesn’t budge.

Does it matter, at this point, if he gives up his name?

“Grayson.”

“Grayson,” Lucan repeats, voice low.

He says it like he’s savouring every syllable, and a shiver crawls up Grayson’s spine before he can hope to stop it.

They sit there, neither moving, sizing each other up. Any tension in the air is entirely on Grayson’s part, he’s sure of that; if Lucan had wanted him to come to harm he could have simply left him to the river, or let him succumb to his injuries. That understanding doesn’t leave him any more comforted. The utter strangeness of sitting politely with a Lycan hasn’t quite worn off, and he can’t imagine it will any time soon.

… Now that they’re sitting here like this, his view no longer impeded by ill health or poor lighting, he thinks there’s something … familiar about Lucan. Not the familiarity of having shared a space with one another, but _recognition_. There’s something about his face, and it picks at Grayson’s brain, but he doesn’t know what it is or _why_.

“I know you.”

Lucan huffs out a laugh. “I would hope so, unless that fall did more damage than even I anticipated.” He lays one hand over his heart, dips his head. “Lucan, at your service.”

Grayson shakes his head. That wasn’t what he’d meant, but Lucan wouldn’t know that.

It’s hard to reconcile this man – this _human_ , thin and pale and hunched in on himself – with the voice he’d known behind the wall, with the Lycan he’s seen towering over him. There’s still some similarity, that animal intensity lurking below his skin even as a man. He knows, too, that eventually he would become accustomed to hearing that voice come from an actual _person_ , and not just some vague imagining. But it’s still _strange_ , to be able to put a face to the one connection to the world he had during those horrific days spent imprisoned. Strange, and frustrating; he’s so sure he knows him, even if he can’t figure out how.

And then there comes a moment where Lucan finally, finally straightens up, sits tall and brushes his hair back out of his face properly, something confident about his expression, and Grayson _looks_ at him.

It’s like he’s been dumped back into the Thames.

The pieces of the puzzle come crawling out of his memory, those missing in between filling out until the picture presented to him is a whole one. His face is gaunter, so much more than he’s ever known it to be – but then it would be, wouldn’t it, if this is –

“God above,” Grayson breathes out, heart pounding. “Is that you, Alastair?”

What little colour remained in Lucan’s face drains immediately.

As a reaction it’s more than enough, but he goes still in that same instant, like he’s seconds away from bolting; a spring coiled tight, ready to snap. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t take his eyes from Grayson.

“I should have known you’d be quick.”

Grayson’s on his feet, and he’s not sure when that happened, one hand pressed against the wall behind to steady himself, his other clenched at his side. This is – it can’t be, a refrain inside his head chanting _how how how_ with every beat of his racing heart. Lucan – fuck, no, _Alastair_ – hasn’t moved this entire time, and that more than anything leaves him uncertain. He could run, and Grayson wouldn’t even chase him, could pretend this is nothing more than the strange dream it feels like it should be. But Alastair doesn’t move, not to flee nor to launch an attack, and Grayson can’t imagine why.

… Is he waiting for Grayson to turn against him?

They hadn’t been close, back then. Their paths had rarely crossed, in fact. Grayson still remembers the day the Lord Chancellor had announced his son’s death, however; still remembers that quiet, serious young Knight, sharp eyed even then.

Now that he sees it – now that he _knows_ – he wonders how he didn’t recognise him the very first moment he saw him.

“You remember who I am, then?” Grayson asks, carefully.

“You had designs on my sister. How could I not?”

He feels heat flood his cheeks at that, though whether out of anger or embarrassment, he couldn’t say. This most recent asking of his name had been little more than a ruse, then, an act to reinforce the idea that they were strangers, nothing more. How long would Alastair have let him labour under that presumption, had Grayson not recognised him first?

Would he have ever known?

The thought is enough to twist his insides uncomfortably.

“You’re a Lycan. An Elder.”

Alastair stares at him as though he’s doubting his intelligence. Grayson shakes his head, wincing at his own words.

“But the Lord Chancellor – he said you … How?”

“I’m to assume you’re referring to how I ended up in the catacombs?”

“Any of it. Anything.”

Alastair watches him for a long moment. It’s clear he’s weighing up whatever it is he means to say; weighing up Grayson, too, a fact that is in no way surprising. But then, slowly, he settles where he sits, no longer looking quite so tense.

“He took me in as a child, raised me as his own. This much you know. I kept what I was hidden from everyone, but even before I joined the Order, I felt a pull towards my own kind. I became close to them,” Alastair says, thoughtful. “I wasn’t long a Knight when I realised that I had no desire to lead such a double life. I bore it as long as I could manage, but eventually it became too much. I confessed my true nature to him, my … activities. And the Lord Chancellor – my father – he struck me down.”

Grayson’s insides lurch. Alastair smirks at the look on his face, though it’s bleak and utterly humourless.

“I awoke in a cell, shackled and gagged. He’d always known what I was, you see. If any of what I’d admitted was discovered it would be the death of me, and perhaps the end of the Order. So he locked me away. And manufactured my death, evidently.”

He gives a shrug at that, and it would be the most casual thing in the world if only it weren’t following on from such a horrific declaration. Grayson has to sit down, suddenly, the images those words conjure enough to leave him nearly lightheaded. He’s not the squeamish sort – couldn’t be, in their line of work – but the more he thinks about it, the more his stomach turns.

“You’ve been down there all this time.”

Alastair hums. “They took the gag off after a while. The shackles, too, when they knew I would no longer fight.”

“I –”

Grayson’s words lodge in his throat. What could he say to such a thing? The thought of the Lord Chancellor – Alastair’s own _father_ – treating him so horrifically goes beyond almost all comprehension. It makes him sick just thinking about it, some part of him still clinging to denial; the head of their Order couldn’t possibly be capable of such barbarism, and surely not against his family. But then, he’s experienced firsthand the Lord Chancellor’s mercy, hasn’t he? Grayson doesn’t even know how many days he passed in that cell. The blink of an eye, compared to Alastair.

That he had managed to hold onto himself, alone and confined for all those years he was – it’s nothing short of miraculous.

Grayson can only shake his head, dumbfounded. A frown overtakes Alastair’s face, though whether it’s directed at Grayson or something else, it isn’t clear. He gets to his feet then, every movement telegraphed, and looks down at him.

“I won’t keep you here, if you wish to leave. Nor will I hunt you down. I’m sure you understand – if I’d wanted you dead, I could have seen to it a dozen times before now. I have no desire to harm you.”

He stands directly in the path of door, and yet Grayson gets no sense that Alastair would try to stop him. It would be the work of seconds to push to his feet, steady his legs beneath him, and step past him towards the door, and whatever might lie beyond. But Grayson doesn’t move, and with every moment that passes he finds himself less inclined to do so.

“I’m not sure I believe that,” Grayson says, as casually as he can manage. “You dragged me out of danger only to use me as a shield on that roof, remember.”

“Desperate measures, I’m afraid.”

Alastair shrugs. It’s clear he, too, is aiming for casual, though whether he succeeds in that is debateable. There’s something searching to the way he’s looking at him, a question in the tiny quirk of his eyebrow. He’s expecting him to leave, Grayson realises, confused as to why he hasn’t yet. Beneath that, though …

It had been easier, before, when there had only been his voice. He’s been focusing on his face so much he almost missed it, but after all the time they spent conversing in their cells Grayson would like to think he’s familiar with at least _some_ of the other man’s moods.

Alastair had very nearly sounded _amused_ just now.

It lights a similar warmth deep in his chest.

“Where would I go?” Grayson finally asks.

Alastair cocks his head to one side. “I’m sure there’s somewhere.”

* * *

He doesn’t go.

There are fresh clothes in the corner, and a bucket they use to wash themselves. None of it fits quite right, not even what he’d first worn here. He’s lost weight, either between his time imprisoned or his recovery, and somehow that bothers him more than anything.

Clearly even the mystical properties of the Blackwater have their limits.

Alastair slips out on occasion, comes back with a can or two of food, hunks of bread of varying sizes; fresh fruit if they’re lucky. He stalks around the room like he’s unsure of what to do with so much space, and Grayson supposes that must be true. There’s something unsettling about the way he moves, something of the animal within closest to the surface in those moments. He _prowls_ , like he’s just getting used to his skin again, and once he has there’ll be hell to pay.

There’s something unsettling, too, about the way Alastair watches him.

It’s difficult, at first, to sleep knowing he’s sharing space with a Lycan. But then, he supposes he’s already done just that, multiple times over. As uneasy as Grayson often finds himself, Alastair sticks to his word, never even comes close to threatening him, let alone harming him. He keeps his distance, except for when he can’t. Then he hovers, uncomfortably close at times, finding whatever excuse he can to lean into Grayson’s space, to brush against him on his way past; he offers out some food or clothing or whatever else and his fingers linger against Grayson’s always a fraction longer than they should, warm and sure.

Grayson doesn’t let himself think about it.

* * *

The days pass slowly. With each one he feels himself grow stronger, the leftover pains from his time in the catacombs slowly ebbing away, and as they do his reasons for remaining here in idleness also fade. He should be moving on. Never mind that every day they stay in one place increases their chance of being discovered – that they’ve somehow managed to avoid detection thus far is frankly a marvel, and one he’s not sure he’s keen on looking at too closely.

He doesn’t trust his luck not to bring ruin down upon them, these days.

The other part is his ever-increasing desire to _move_. He rails against inactivity, mind and body alike. How can he remain here, still and silent, while the world outside continues to turn? He wasn’t made for waiting. At least while he was still recovering, he had that as an excuse for his indolence. Now he feels it slipping through his fingers more and more.

On the worst days it leaves his thoughts turning inward, a frustrated examining of all his failings and how doomed things can only be from here. He swings from pacing intently to sitting in the same place for hours, staring unblinkingly at the ground. His body is one tense line, and his scowl could put the Lord Chancellor’s to shame.

Alastair watches him in these moments, an expression that suggests he knows the feeling all too well.

They speak, sometimes. Quietly, and not for long. Alastair doesn’t ask him any questions about the Order, or how things have changed in his absence, and Grayson doesn’t offer to tell him. There’s something deeply strange about sharing space with a man he knows, remembers, but is all at once completely foreign to him. Like looking at a photograph of an old friend, and not quite recognising their face. There are old boundaries to be established anew, shadows of a former life still clinging at the edges, waiting to be tested to see what still fits. Grayson’s almost glad he doesn’t ask.

Instead, Alastair tells him details of what he sees outside – police patrols that he evades, the number of Sentinels hanging overhead, the colours of the dresses worn by the fine ladies he sees on occasion, and how long it takes for one of his marks to realise they’ve been stolen from.

That last one is always a ruse. According to Alastair he’s never once been seen.

Grayson hoards these scraps of information, quietly looks forward to every new piece that Alastair offers up. He sleeps easier, and longer.

And then one night he rouses briefly at some point to the feeling of warmth along his front, so total it’s almost overwhelming. There’s an arm snaked around his back, loosely caging him in; steady exhales puff against the top of his chest, shirt sticking to him in that one spot from the damp.

Grayson goes still. His head is still fuzzy with sleep, but his thoughts are slowly coming to him, and this isn’t – they shouldn’t be –

It comes back to him then, more sense memory than conscious recollection. Cold being leeched from him by a warmth so deep it seemed unending; bare skin against his own, hands holding him safe and secure; and a calm so absolute it had been easy to sink into it. That same calm is pulling at him now, and those thoughts from earlier don’t quite go away, but he closes his eyes against them regardless.

* * *

He wakes alone to the grey light of morning. The absence against his front is all too noticeable, and he shivers as he pulls those mostly useless blankets closer to himself.

Alastair is pacing quietly near the front of the room, his arms wrapped around his chest. That animal grace is back in his movements, and he doesn’t once look back towards the bed.

* * *

There’s a small pile of blankets about midway through the room, gathered close to one wall. It’s here that Alastair makes his bed, curled in on himself and half-buried beneath them every night. He keeps his back to the wall, and Grayson doesn’t miss how it allows him to keep one cracked eye on not only the door, but Grayson as well.

Small as the room is, the cold still creeps in easily. At some point Alastair had requisitioned him a pair of boots – ill-fitting, with more holes than they ought to possess, but appreciated nonetheless – and in those moments where he goes without them the cold shoots through his feet so strongly it turns painful. He doesn’t cross the floor unless he has to, keeps his feet firmly off the ground.

He can only imagine what it must be like _sleeping_ on it.

“Why not take the bed?” He asks that evening, picking away at the contents of a tin. It’s a meagre meal, but a welcome one all the same.

Alastair raises an eyebrow at him. “I’ve been sleeping on stone for years, Grayson. Anything else would feel unnatural at this point.”

Grayson frowns, but doesn’t argue the point. It’s only later, lying there in the dark, that he realises it’s the first time Alastair has used his name since ‘learning’ it.

* * *

He shifts the mattress onto the floor the following morning. Alastair watches his every move, and when he’s done Grayson gives him a shrug.

“You were right. It does feel strange, after sleeping on the ground for so long.”

Alastair narrows his eyes at him, but says nothing.

* * *

There’s no change that night, nor the one after. That morning when he looks, however, he thinks Alastair’s pile of blankets may have shifted closer.

He can’t really be certain about it.

* * *

Something drags him out of sleep, some skittering noise or the sound of the walls around them settling, instinct so inborn he no longer thinks to question it. With bleary eyes and a slowly waking mind he peers around the room. As much as he’s able to without moving, anyway. He makes out vague shapes in the gloom, but nothing worth jumping to attention over; no officers creeping in to gut them in their sleep, or hellish creatures looking for an easy meal.

It’s a relief, even if he doesn’t immediately let himself relax. Instead he lies there for some vague amount of time, only half awake, ears open for any kind of sign his instincts had been right. Only the sound of his own breathing reaches him. With slumber already trying to urge him back under he sighs, lets his eyes shut fully and waits for the dark to retake him.

His body is impossibly heavy, though it’s not the sort associated with sleep, as he finds when he goes to roll over.

He’s flat on his back, arms loose at his sides. Alastair is sprawled over him, body half-covering Grayson’s own. His head rests on Grayson’s chest, above his heart; one arm is curled around his torso, and he’s thrown a leg over both of Grayson’s. He breathes steadily, exhales ghosting through Grayson’s shirt, and he’s so warm it’s almost unbelievable. Some aspect of his Lycan physiology, surely, Grayson thinks to himself. He’s never known anyone to emanate such heat, and he can come up with nothing else to explain it.

That immediate nerve-spiking sense of _wrong_ he’d felt the last time he’d woken like this doesn’t sweep through him as it had previously. There’s a nervousness, a tension thrumming just beneath the surface of his skin, but it’s easy enough for him to breathe in deep and pretend it isn’t there. More than anything, what discomfort he feels boils down to the simplest of things.

After lying in one place for so long, all he wants is to _move_.

In every instance of this that he’s experienced Alastair has been long gone by the time he’s woken. They’ve never had to have the awkward encounter that would follow if things went differently; they haven’t had _any_ awkward encounters about it, Grayson unwilling to be the one to broach the subject and Alastair’s face a blank slate every subsequent morning. It’s more than likely any attempt on Grayson’s part will wake the other man – he may be in for that conversation sooner than later, after all – but Alastair looks to be sound asleep.

Maybe …maybe if he’s lucky, takes his time …

Carefully, he shifts his hand, unintentionally brushing up Alastair’s back as he does so –

Alastair moans against his chest.

Grayson freezes.

He can feel his heart pounding through his entire body, sudden and damning. It’s the loudest thing in his ears, every other sound falling away in an instant; Grayson doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare _breathe_ for how certain he is it’ll split the silence in two. Alastair is motionless against him, the flutter of his breath carrying on uninterrupted. Grayson strains for a sign of any kind he’s actually awake, but over the racing of his thoughts and his heart both it’s impossible to tell.

… It was only a small noise. Maybe he was hearing things; maybe it was nothing at all.

He trails his hand up his back again, and Alastair shudders against him.

Grayson’s breath sticks in his throat as the arm around him tightens. Slowly, Alastair shifts against him, levering himself up until he’s poised over him, his other hand pressed flat to the ground beside Grayson’s head, the leg not tangled with Grayson’s own now helping keep him upright.

The room is dark, though his eyes are used to it by now, and just enough light creeps in for him to see the outline of Alastair. His lips are parted and he’s breathing hard, like he’s been running, fighting for his life, and how could Grayson have ever thought he was asleep? He’s staring, and in the low light his eyes look black.

_All the better to see you with_ , Grayson thinks abruptly, and shivers.

But there’s no flash of teeth, no shift of flesh to fur; Alastair stares at him, and it’s his body trembling.

“Gray.”

Grayson’s hand is still splayed across his back, that impossible heat radiating against his palm. It’s all he’s thinking about as he reaches his other hand up, settles it against Alastair’s hip.

Alastair exhales hard, one long gusty breath, and lets his head fall nearly to Grayson’s shoulder, stray locks of hair brushing his cheek. He hovers like that for a moment before his head dips lower, and then Grayson feels lips drag up the side of his neck, Alastair leaning close as he breathes in deep, just below Grayson’s ear. It can’t be pleasant, old sweat and unkempt hair, but it sends a bolt of heat straight down Grayson’s spine.

Grayson’s hands are moving without him even thinking of it, tugging at the bottom of Alastair’s shirt, urging it upwards. Alastair shifts back just enough to help pull the material over his own head before he starts working at Grayson’s buttons, and Grayson can only stare as he does so. The low light does him no favours, surely, but it’s shocking how pale Alastair is. His observations on the man's lean frame prove alarmingly correct; Grayson can feel his bones protruding, and he thinks if he looks closely enough he’d be able to count each of his ribs.

Alastair’s hands bring him back, shaking as they work at Grayson’s shirt. He manages a few buttons before a noise of frustration escapes him, the rest pinging across the floor as he _rips_ the material apart. Grayson wriggles out of it, the two of them nearly butting heads as Alastair goes to help, and then there’s nothing but the thin mattress against his back and Alastair poised above him.

He stares down at Grayson like he doesn’t know where to begin, and maybe that’s the truth.

Grayson wonders what he must look like. He’s breathing hard, though not as hard as Alastair; he must have borrowed some of the other man’s heat, such is the fire under his skin. Even if he wanted to, he doesn’t think he could look away.

His hands have settled against Alastair’s hips, thumbs stroking along the line where skin dips below trousers. It’s the lightest touch he can manage, the lightest touch he can allow himself to give.

It’s enough for Alastair.

He leans down, brushing their mouths together. It’s almost chaste, the press of lips against his; Grayson’s barely brought his hand up to Alastair’s cheek when he pulls away, trailing his mouth again down the length of Grayson’s neck. Sliding his fingers into Alastair’s hair is easy then, natural, encouraging him along. The other he trails up and down his side, his back, long sweeps of his hand – easy motions, but every one sends a twitch through Alastair, or makes his breath catch, and even after his earlier reaction it’s somehow still surprising.

He buries his head in Grayson’s shoulder, and any illusion of composure that remained vanishes as he starts grinding his hips against Grayson’s own. That pressure against his thigh, it’s Alastair’s cock, and that’s –

It shouldn’t make his mouth go dry, shouldn’t send his blood pooling straight between his legs, but it does, and with Alastair still breathing hard against his shoulder it’s Grayson who has to act, reaching between them to work at his own trousers. He gets them open just enough to slip his underwear down, hand brushing against his own rapidly hardening cock. Alastair is pressing against him so intently he has to use both hands to urge him back, and only then can he get at his waist, all but dragging his trousers down his thighs.

He’s wearing nothing underneath. Something about that draws a breathless laugh from Grayson.

Alastair’s gripping his shoulder so tightly it’s sure to leave bruises. Every part of him seems to be shaking now, his knees only just holding himself up, and while before he’d been rocking into him unabashedly now it’s like he’s fighting to keep himself in place, hips twitching forward in tiny, barely controlled motions.

Grayson wishes he could see his face.

He’s never done this – done anything – with another man. But he knows what he likes, and it’s as good a place to start as any.

He spits into his palm and reaches down, taking both of them in hand as best he can.

Alastair makes a noise that’s barely human, and jerks in his grasp.

Grayson bites back a groan as he begins to stroke. It’s just the wrong side of dry, even as sweat sticks to their skin everywhere else, but there’s precome beading at the heads of both their cocks and as he drags his fist down it slicks the way. Alastair is given over to the slide of their flesh, thrusting into his hand without reserve. There’s something desperate to the snap of his hips, the way he arches into his touch, and even as he’s stroking them a thought sticks in Grayson’s mind.

How long has it been since Alastair had a hand on him other than his own?

“Alright?” Grayson manages to ask, voice wrecked.

Alastair’s answer is a moan. He shoves his hand down between them to wrap around Grayson’s, and the strength of his grip makes him hiss.

It doesn’t take long after that. Alastair sets a brutal pace, and between that and their shared grasp it’s bordering on painful. But he doesn’t stop, and neither does Grayson. He can already feel the promise of his release building low in his belly; he’s almost lost to it when he feels Alastair shudder above him, then go still. There’s a rush of warmth as he comes against their hands, and Alastair buries both his moan and his teeth in Grayson’s shoulder.

Pain bursts bright and sharp through him and Grayson gasps, his hand stuttering even as Alastair’s goes lax around his. There’s a warning screaming in his head, _Lycan_ and _oh god_ and _bitten_ , but he’s so close, and the fire in his shoulder tangles so deeply with the movement of his hand that he can’t separate the two, and finally he comes with a choked back cry.

He lies there for a while, slowly catching his breath. Eventually he eases his hand out from between them, wipes the evidence of their deed off on the edge of the mattress. Anything more will have to wait; Alastair’s knees have finally gone out from under him, and he sprawls even more fully over him, a living, clinging blanket. He pulls back just enough to trail his lips up Grayson’s neck once more time, a soft kiss that only ever reaches the corner of his mouth. Then he settles his head on Grayson’s chest and doesn’t move again.

Grayson’s shoulder pulses with every beat of his heart. With clumsy hands he reaches up, finds the centre of that pulse and presses against it. Shaking, he holds his fingers up before him.

No blood, no broken skin. The indentations are deep enough he can count each and every one.

Grayson lets out a breath, relief so deep he feels scraped raw with it. Between that and his own release the exhaustion that’s been rapidly drawing over him settles fully, and Grayson allows himself to close his eyes. He presses against the bite one last time, the sting of _pleasure pain_ and the weight of Alastair’s body the last thing his mind registers before he drifts off into sleep.

* * *

“What happens now?”

It’s some time later, though he can’t exactly say how long. Enough for faint beams of pinkish light to filter through the gaps in the boards blocking the window, shadows battling the soft glow spreading through the room. Enough for him to better glimpse the man still lying in the circle of his arms.

Alastair seemingly hasn’t moved since his collapse onto him hours prior; even Grayson’s waking a short while earlier had failed to rouse him. Pressed together as they are, with nothing but the quiet to distract him, he finds it only natural to focus on the sound of Alastair’s breathing, the feel of him under his hands. As such he notices the hitch immediately, the deep, slow rhythm of his breaths faltering for just a moment before steadying again, not quite the same as it had been. There’s something deliberate to his stillness, now, and Grayson knows beyond a shadow of a doubt Alastair’s awake.

Minutes crawl by without a hint of movement. It’s what finally pushes Grayson into posing his question, voice carving through the quiet, uncomfortably loud to his own ears.

Alastair doesn’t answer right away, deep in thought or clinging to the illusion of sleep a few moments longer. “What do you mean?”

His voice is gruff in a way it wasn’t earlier, rough with sleep and perhaps a little more. Heat pools in Grayson’s belly at the sound of it. He does his best to ignore it.

“We can’t stay here. We’re lacking in necessities, and even if we weren’t, the Order will be hunting for us high and low. It’s a miracle we haven’t been discovered as it is.”

With every word Alastair levers himself up until he’s sitting, weight settled across Grayson’s thighs. Lacking his shirt, and with his trousers only loosely gathered at his hips, the image he presents is a rather provocative one. Alastair seems aware of it, too, the nature of their positions and the suggestiveness of it; there’s a heat in his eyes as he stares down at him, a hunger that Grayson doesn’t know what to do with.

“There was _some_ skill involved in keeping you alive, I’ll have you know,” Alastair says lightly.

Grayson’s throat has gone dry. He swallows hard, intimately aware of how Alastair is watching his every move.

“You did more than most in your position would,” he finally says.

“I don’t remember you thanking me for that.”

The thought comes to him then, abrupt and a little hysterical – _is that not what last night was?_ He knows better than to speak it, thankfully, knows the second after the idea enters his head that it wasn’t the case. Whatever happened last night – whatever thing exists between them now – wasn’t born out of some sense of obligation. To suggest otherwise would be repugnant, and would do them both a disservice.

It’s only growing more obvious that Alastair is waiting for a response, the room so quiet Grayson can hear every creak and shift of the building around them. He has to say _something_.

“… Thank you.”

Alastair arches an eyebrow at him. “Surely between the two of us we could come up with something more satisfying.”

Grayson’s breath sticks in his throat. He lies there, pinned to the spot in more ways than one, as Alastair’s eyes rake over him. It’s like he’s drinking in the sight of him, every inch of exposed skin. And then his gaze lands on Grayson’s neck, and the spot that surely stands out right beside it, no doubt deeply bruised and pulsing with every rapid beat of his heart –

The bite mark.

Grayson resists the urge to reach up and cover it, though just barely. It feels far too much like that instinct from earlier, the one that all but screamed _predator_ at the sight of Alastair, and he hates that. With the way the other man has hardly seemed to blink, however, he can’t afford to _not_ listen to it.

And then:

“I could make you one of us,” Alastair says, voice low. “Make you mine.”

A shudder runs through him at that, gooseflesh springing up across his skin, and for all that Alastair’s focus is still on his neck Grayson’s certain his reaction hasn’t gone unnoticed.

He swallows again. “I’m rather attached to my humanity, I’m afraid.”

With a slowness that can only be deliberate Alastair shifts forward until he’s hovering over him on all fours, knees planted either side of Grayson’s hips, one hand coming down beside his head. With the other he reaches down, brushing careful fingers over the bruise standing out starkly over his collarbone.

“More’s the pity,” he says, voice low.

Grayson’s breath catches in his throat. It’s almost without conscious thought that he shifts his hands, dragging them along Alastair’s sides and up his back, only stopping when his palms cup the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair. Alastair’s eyes are dark, barely any colour left at all – two black pools to drown himself in, watching him with such a heat he’s waiting for the burn. There’s a wariness there he’s not expecting, though, like he’s waiting for Grayson to change his mind, relinquish his grip and move away.

Gently as he can, he urges Alastair’s head down. For a moment Alastair resists the pull, uncertainty shining through, but finally he lets himself be drawn down and their mouths come together. It’s bolder than their very first brush of lips was, bare seconds passing before Alastair is urging his mouth open further. The kiss is hungry, Alastair’s mouth insistent against his own until all that’s in his head is sensation, the wet heat of the kiss and the weight of the body now pressing into his and the noise Alastair makes when Grayson tightens his fingers in his hair, _fuck_ –

Grayson’s the one who breaks it in the end, hands at Alastair’s shoulders easing him back gently. Alastair goes without a fight, a question in his eyes as he looks down at him. Grayson already knows what it is he’s afraid he’ll see – disgust, or anger, or some combination of both. He knows, too, that there’s nothing of the sort on his own face. He gets to watch Alastair make that realisation mere seconds later, hesitation melting into something softer, something –

Fond is the right word. It’s also one he’s cautious of using, with all that it could possibly entail.

Alastair is shivering beneath his hands, he realises suddenly, fine trembles wracking his whole body. Not because he’s cold. It’s that same shaking that had overtaken him when Grayson had first touched him, before things had escalated as they did.

Slowly, Grayson traces his thumbs against Alastair’s skin, back and forth, squeezing his fingers gently. It’s so light a caress, and yet it makes Alastair exhale heavily all the same, his eyelids slipping closed. He leans down then, but rather than bringing their mouths together again like Grayson’s expecting, he instead presses their foreheads together. They stay there like that, quiet, breath mingling, until eventually Alastair’s shaking subsides.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Grayson says then.

“Hmm?”

“What happens now?”

Alastair takes in one last deep breath before he pulls back again. “Whatever is in your power, I would imagine. Surely there must be something you wish to achieve with your newfound freedom.”

Grayson frowns, settling his hands at Alastair’s hips. He has both the knowledge and the capability required to disappear from London, start a new life over in another city, another _country_. He could find some other way to continue the fight, this life’s mission of his. Or he could give it up entirely, find something new to give himself purpose.

He already knows such a thing won’t happen.

What’s left for him, then, should he remain? The Order is almost certainly lost to him, a fact that still stings. Any action he takes now will likely only turn them against him further – especially the one he’s now considering.

As if there were ever any other choice for him.

“Hastings,” he says. “He should be made to face justice for what he’s done. Or stopped, at the very least.”

“There. That wasn’t so difficult, now was it?”

“What about you?” Grayson asks. When Alastair looks blankly at him, he adds, “What will you do now you’re free?”

“… I’ve not had reason to wonder such things. Not for a very long time.”

Alastair frowns, though not at him. Grayson gives him this moment in silence, absently stroking the skin over his hipbones as he watches Alastair’s face. For having been alone as long as he has, he still somehow manages to hide his thoughts well; whatever it is he’s feeling, Grayson can only guess. It’s an impossible situation to be in, an impossible one to _imagine_. He can’t rightly say he’d know the answer, if he were in Alastair’s place.

“I suppose,” Grayson starts, clears his throat, tries again, “I suppose I could use an ally in this. One who has already proven his worth. His capability.”

Alastair stares down at him, one eyebrow slowly arching upward.

“I imagine he could use some assistance, learning how things have changed in the time he’s been away.”

“Do you, now,” Alastair hums. His eyes flash with some emotion Grayson can’t put a name to.

“When the time comes, and we’re both at the height of our strength,” Grayson continues, undaunted. “Whatever either of us chooses to do. I believe he could use someone he could trust just as much as I.”

Alastair looks at him for a long, long moment, as though searching for some deception. And then he laughs, a short, quiet sound. “A Lycan and a Knight, working together. The Order could hardly ever conceive of such a thing. They only have themselves to blame, I suppose.”

It’s strange to think about, that the Order will most likely hear of their partnership at some point or another. Stranger still, to think that one of their ranks might eventually see Alastair in the flesh, _recognise_ him. What must the Lord Chancellor be thinking right now? Would he try to get out in front of the lie, or hold firm until he had no other choice but to own to it?

How would Isabeau react, knowing that after all this time her brother was actually alive?

It’s enough to make his head spin, more than he could hope to consider.

“I never asked,” Alastair says then, drawing his attention back. “You could have left me in that cell. I would never have known. What made you come back?”

Grayson stares up at him, every answer he can think to give racing through his mind. His throat’s gone dry. He swallows hard against it.

“All men have their secrets,” he finally says.

A smirk curls slowly at the corners of Alastair’s mouth. “I’ll just have to find a way to draw them out of you, then.”

“More than enough time for that,” Grayson says, voice low, and rises to meet Alastair as he brings their lips together again.

**Author's Note:**

> 20k words of an excuse to write a little bit of touch-starved Alastair, lmao
> 
> If you've made it this far, please do leave a comment! I appreciate them more than I can ever say. <3


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